Revolutions
by genericpseudonyms
Summary: June 1832. August 1916. June 1944. May 1968. On the battlefields of France, they find each other, falling in and out of love with the ebb and flow of time. Reincarnation AU. E/E, M/C, both one-sided E/M, E/R.
1. Prelude, Letters of Marius Pontmercy

**AN:** So this is the "sequel" to my other story, Endless Waltz. You don't have to read that to enjoy this, but there will be minor references and call backs to certain things. Of course, if you do like this, feel free to check it out :). Another thing, this story will be a more experimental in format than the previous fics I've written so far but I'd love it if you give it a shot. As always, feedback and constructive criticism are my crack.

* * *

**The Prelude**

June 6, 1832

When dawn caressed their lifeless bodies at the barricade, it wasn't so much an end as it was a beginning. It wasn't so much that the streets had been stained with Eponine's blood as it was her spirit seeping back into the alleys and cobblestones of Paris. When they found Enjolras, the crimson flag of his doomed revolution still clutched in his fist, they threw his bullet-riddled body into a ditch with the other schoolboys. But it wasn't so much an ignominious death as it was a return to the earth of his beloved homeland.

Years later, when Cosette lay dying after giving birth to their third child, Marius held her hand and vowed his soul would never rest until he found her again. And then, when he too lay dying as an old man, he held the hands of his weeping children and told them he was flying home to all those who had gone before him.

He could not know that he had made such promises before, just as Enjolras could not know that he would always lay down his life for his country. Such was the way of men. For Eponine had never questioned the cold truth that she was forever doomed to fall in love with someone she could never have, and Cosette had always known that some part of her would be missing until Marius found her.

They kept living and dying, falling in and out of love with the ebb and flow of time.

But on that night at the barricade, as Enjolras watched a starving girl dressed as a boy breathe her last ragged breath, something deep in his soul knew that he had lost her before and would lose her again.

And as the last of her strength left her, Eponine tried to memorize the face of her one true love and finally understood that although her eyes were always open, she would always be blind.

They kept finding each other again and again in the darkness, only to lose each other in the cold morning light.

* * *

_First Revolution—On the banks of the Somme, 1913-1916_

* * *

Interlude—The Letters of Marius Pontmercy, Summer 1913

_May 6, 1913_

_Dearest Nina,_

_I confess I have done you a great injustice. I have not kept my promise to write as often as I should, but I beg that you not be discouraged. Often, when I tire of the busy streets of Paris, I imagine us as children running through my grandfather's wood in search of great adventure. It is then that your letters of home bring me great comfort. _

_How is your brother? I am relieved to hear my grandfather has granted your petition that he be made our new stableboy this summer. There is no need for gratitude; I did nothing more than remind him our family will forever be in your father's debt for his courage. I trust your sister and mother are well—you did not mention them in your last letter._

_By the time you receive this, I imagine I will have already completed my exams and preparations for the trip home. One day, you must travel to Paris and walk with me along the Seine. At night, the moonlight makes the pavements "gleam like silver." I have not forgotten how much of a poet you are. If memory serves, that is how you described the way the pebbles glittered in the stream when we were children. _

_I am eager to see you and grandfather; though whether he shall be glad to see me is another story entirely. But I will not bore you any further, as I am sure you have already heard enough on the matter. I pray that he is treating you well and that you are not overworked. You mustn't let him bully you or any of the other staff, no matter how loudly he may decree otherwise._

_But as much as I long to once again visit the gardens at home, I know I shall miss Paris and my brothers here as soon as I return. They think me mad to return to the countryside when "war is upon us." I am not nearly as concerned about the situation in the Balkans, but I never had much love for foreign policy._

_Do not worry. My friends have pure hearts that overflow with love for France. None so much as our esteemed leader Enjolras, who may visit for a fortnight in July. It is my greatest hope that I might introduce him to you. All of us among the ABC admire him greatly. Not a day goes by that he does not spend working toward a better tomorrow. And if that were not enough, he has the face of an angel—perhaps not unlike the painting of the Archangel Michael that hangs in the parlor. The ladies of Paris sigh at the very sight of him, with his long golden curls and dark azure eyes. To hear Grantaire tell it, he is a "savage Antinous" reborn. _

_But despite his upbringing among the Parisian elite, Enjolras is a staunch socialist at heart. _

_Oh, it is at times like these that I am agitated to think that if it were not for your sex, you might also be here studying the ways of the world. How I wish you could hear Enjolras speak on women's rights. He is a much more gifted orator than I when it comes to the God given freedoms denied to us by the oppressive regime of tradition. I'll confess; I've oft imagined you among England's suffragettes when I read of their valiant efforts to win the vote in the newspapers._

_However, I am curious to see the niece of the new vicar, though I was saddened to hear of Monsieur Bienvenue's passing. I am intrigued as to what sort of person could elicit such disdain from my childhood friend, who has only ever shown me the sweetest kindness._

_But I fear I must bid you adieu. I am presently late for a meeting and Enjolras does not look kindly upon tardiness._

_Your friend,_

_Marius_

* * *

_June 28, 1913_

_Enjolras,_

_You cannot know how delighted I was to receive your letter. We would be honored to have you as our guest from the 16th of July. The country air shall do you a world of good; it cannot be at all healthy to continually breathe in the smoke and vapors of Paris. You shall have all the solitude you require at my grandfather's estate; none shall interrupt your grand and admirable work to free the less fortunate from the shackles of bourgeois tyranny._

_I am also looking forward to introducing you to my childhood friend Eponine. And before you turn up your nose—yes, I am well aware of the disdain you harbor toward matchmaking and the fairer sex—she is in my grandfather's employ as head housemaid and was once my late mother's lady's maid. I assure you, you will not find a better muse for the injustice of inequality than my dear Nina. But don't tell her I told you that; she already chafes at the idea my grandfather employed her out of charity for the deeds of her honorable father, who saved mine from an untimely death when we were children._

_We eagerly wait for word of your arrival. I am already missing Paris and it shall be a great comfort to see a familiar face._

_Sincerely,_

_Marius Pontmercy_

* * *

_July 23, 1913_

_To my friends of the ABC,_

_Gossip is unbecoming of such a worthy group of men, but I know such admonishments fall on deaf ears. I must admit, however, I could not help but laugh after reading your letter, which I imagine was penned by a half drunken Jehan and an unusually sober Grantaire. _

_Not a word from any of you, besides Courfeyrac, this entire summer. Yet our fearless leader has been here less than a week and lo, a barrage of letters. Make no excuses; I know when I am unloved. _

_To answer your most pressing question: No, he does not take interest in the lovely ladies of the town—how can a man admire the fairer sex when he has no interest in leaving his books? Though I daresay he is popular among the women downstairs. _

_No, our steadfast leader remains devoted to his one true love. Every morning after breakfast, he takes a stroll in my grandfather's garden before barricading himself up in our library to write about the future of our beloved Patria. He does not stray from his studies until supper, where he is a courteous yet vocal opponent of my grandfather's many misconceptions. But I do not need to describe Enjolras' silver tongue to you, my dear friends. While my grandfather cannot see past Enjolras' (and my own) radical views, he has confessed that he finds him to be a fine young man. _

_Yet I protest your accusations of allowing our dear Enjolras to remain locked away in a dark tower of his own making. Two nights ago, after my grandfather had gone to bed, we walked down to the cottages where I introduced him to my childhood friend Eponine. I had rather hoped it would be a successful meeting as they resemble each other in temperament and wit. But I fear for all his charisma on the pulpit, Enjolras remains completely out of his depth among women._

_You see my friends, Nina is not unlike the grisettes of old and works in the employ of my grandfather as head housemaid. But it is a farce that I go to university and she does not. And though she has never been anything but kind to me, she has a sharp tongue and is unafraid to lash out at any who deign to pity her. And though she is by no means a great beauty, she is not without her own charm. When her father first suggested we take her into our service, she was a small, sickly creature who was little more than skin and bones. She is still slender, but now there is strength in her every step. I find her most handsome feature to be her coffee-colored eyes, which have always seemed wiser than her years. Many a servant boy has been known to be smitten with her, though I would be pleased to make an introduction for any of you—except Grantaire, who I doubt would have any interest. I assure you that I have never gazed upon her with anything but friendship, and that she regards me only as a friend and brother._

_But I digress. The introduction went well at first. Nina was eager to hear stories of all our Parisian exploits, and Enjolras is never one to pass up an opportunity to wax lyrical on the virtues of socialism. I daresay he was impressed with her ability to comprehend the basic tenets of socialism's more complex rhetoric. So you can imagine what fate lay before him when he asked Nina why she chose to toil in"thinly disguised slavery to a class in the midst of its death throes."_

_I have never seen my sweet, good-natured friend so angry, though upon further reflection, I believe she did not fully speak her mind to protect my honor. She sat there silent for a few moments, before saying:"Good monsieur, it is true that I shall never be a bourgeoisie mademoiselle, or a student at the Sorbonne, but you need not condescend to learn the plight of an obvious inferior such as myself."_

_Enjolras wasted no time in launching his rebuttal. Said he:"Mademoiselle, I did not mean any offense. I merely wished to open the eyes of one ignorant to her potential."_

_"Ignorant? I may not have the means to pay a university to give me a shield of paper, but I understand what is real and what is fantasy. Now I am tired, and must be up at dawn. I bid you both goodnight."_

_I do believe that was the first time Enjolras has ever been at a loss for words._

_We were quiet on the walk back, and I admit I was quite cross with Nina for her lack of manners. I would have scolded her, but Enjolras implored me not to. This morning, he begged my forgiveness regarding the incident, and has been brooding ever since. Tonight, we shall entertain the new vicar as our guest, as well as his brother and niece. I only hope Enjolras has more experience conversing with "proper ladies," or I fear his notoriety in this house will only grow._

_Sincerely,_

_Marius_

* * *

_July 25, 1913_

_Dear Mademoiselle Fauchelevent,_

_If you are reading this letter, then Eponine has managed to find you in time and for that I am grateful. I hope you will accept my sincerest apologies for the night you, your father and uncle dined at my grandfather's estate. _

_You must excuse my friend Enjolras. His heart is in the right place, but he is not accustomed to gentle company. He was bereft of his mother when he was just a babe, and his father had very little patience for raising a young boy. But as his friend, I would be remiss if I did not try to help him see the error of his ways and overcome these difficulties. He burns so fervently for his causes that he sometimes forgets that not all of us are so eager to be scorched by the flames of revolution._

_He sends his sincerest apologies for any offense he might have given and his inability to apologize in person. Alas, my poor friend has been struck with a violent fever and must rest for the time being, so I humbly ask that you forgive him in his stead._

_I was saddened to hear of your departure and that I will be unable to see you before I return to the Sorbonne. I rather enjoyed our conversation, and hope that you and your father will visit again—under more pleasant circumstances. _

_Sincerely,_

_Marius Pontmercy_

* * *

_August 10, 1913_

_My drunken friends,_

_Your laughter at our dear leader's expense is most unkind. But to say the dinner was a complete and utter disaster would not be entirely truthful._

_The vicar, his brother and his niece arrived approximately one hour before we were to dine. My grandfather was away inspecting his businesses in Paris, so it was up to me to play the gracious host. The vicar is a pleasant, but rather quiet man so he did not make for much stimulation. His brother is likewise, rather taciturn. But unlike the vicar, I admit there is something strange about him. I have never seen a man his age so strong; he wore loose clothing, but it was not hard to see the hidden strength in his limbs as he walked. His hair was already peppered with silver, but he did not seem a day over 40. He carried himself with a great deal of importance, but what he may have done before entering his brother's service is a mystery._

_How strange indeed. The vicar refers to him almost reverentially, as if he were a figure of authority, yet Monsieur Fauchelevent works as a simple gardener. Like his brother, he did not speak much, but once I inquired after his wife, he stopped talking altogether, much to the distress of his daughter._

_His daughter...I don't know where to begin. From the moment she walked in it was as if the sun itself had burst into the room and filled it with the music of angels. I am no poet like Jehan, but if you had been there you might have known what it felt like to be struck to the bone in a moment of pure delight. But how can I describe her? How can one put down perfection into imperfect words?_

_Her hair is like spun gold, the color of wheat right before harvest, and her eyes...her eyes! A deep shade of cerulean that could rival the depths of the entire Atlantic. Her skin was paler than moonlight and smoother than ivory, with a healthy glow in the apples of her cheek that brought out the coral of her lips..._

_I could hardly eat...I did not hear anything of the conversation at dinner, so fixated I was on this beautiful creature. I tried to speak, but found myself unable to utter more than a few horribly mangled utterances. She did not seem to mind, and bestowed me with the privilege of her musical laughter. But I fear it is here where the story goes awry._

_You see, Enjolras had barely spoken a word the entire evening. Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, in her infinite charity and kindness, noted his uncharacteristic taciturnity when he joined us in the parlor after dinner._

_"Monsieur Enjolras," she said, "You seem unwell. Are you alright?"_

_He did not answer her, nor did he acknowledge hearing what she had said. But my angel was not to be deterred, and repeated her inquiry._

_And if you can believe it, our dear leader replied thusly: "Mademoiselle, I heard you the first time. I am not deaf. And my wellbeing is none of your concern."_

_"I am sorry, monsieur. I-I did not mean to offend. I was merely—"_

_"I thank you for your concern, but it is wholly unnecessary." _

_It was here that I interjected on behalf of Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. As temperamental as Enjolras can be, I honestly did not expect him to say what he did next. _

_"If you are quite done, find me when you're done fawning over the girl and remember what is actually important."_

_I quickly explained that Enjolras was referring to France and the threat imposed by Germany, as well as the recent upheaval in the Balkans. She laughed, though it was not as carefree as before. Mademoiselle Fauchelevent was gracious enough to try and hide her distress, but I could see Enjolras' cold words had shaken her. To my eternal regret, her father soon remarked it was time to leave and there was no conversation after that. I imagine he saw or heard the entire exchange, for he fixed a cold stare in Enjolras' direction._

_You can imagine my frustration. I would venture to say Enjolras is incapable of love if I did not know better. But despite that, I have discovered the face of true beauty in Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. So I cannot say it was a complete disaster._

_I would have reprimanded our leader quite severely if he had not been suddenly struck with a mysterious and violent fever later that night. The doctor couldn't make heads or tails of what caused it, but thankfully, Enjolras swiftly recovered after I entrusted him to Nina's care. They seem to have gained a tentative understanding from the ordeal, though I doubt they shall ever be true friends._

_Sincerely, _

_Marius_

* * *

_September 14, 1913_

_Dearest Nina,_

_You are a wonderful, wonderful friend!_

_Imagine my joy when I opened your letter to also find a reply from my darling Cosette! I have enclosed a reply with this letter, as I do not think her father would approve if I sent one directly...How can I ever repay you? When I am next home, you must tell me your greatest wish and I will do everything in my power to grant it. Anything, Nina. Anything at all._

_Oh, and Enjolras bade me to tell you he is "exceedingly grateful" for your care when he was ill. And to remind you that "Fools cannot see what is right before their eyes, but only an idiot would choose to remain blind." He said you would know what that meant, though I admit I am greatly puzzled. Has someone slighted you? He would be a fool, Nina. Half the boys in town would fall at your feet if you would let them._

_-Marius_

* * *

AN: So yeah. I said it was experimental. Next chapter is a bit more traditional. I've done a butt-ton of research for this and picked the dates and stuff accordingly, but my knowledge of European history is tenuous in certain areas. Please let me know if I've got some of this stuff compppleeetely wrong.


	2. A housemaid from Montfermeil

AN: So this is one long chapter. I debated splitting it up but ultimately decided against it. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, or followed the story thus far. Hope you guys like it—more feedback would be loverly. Hint hint.

* * *

Chapter One: A housemaid from Montfermeil

She kept his letters bundled with thick twine and hidden in a box at the back of her closet. The latest she kept folded in her apron pocket so that she could take it out and read it over and over when no one else was looking.

At night, before bed, she devoured the beautiful words written in his messy scrawl until her lids became too heavy to keep open. He had written he was eager to see her, which made her heart leap and her toes curl under the covers. She imagined chestnut hair and warm blue eyes, sun-kissed skin and freckles. And then, just as she felt like she could throw open the windows and fly, she pinched herself and tucked the letter under her pillow.

Eponine Thenardier was many things, but she was no fool.

She sighed, tucking a stray strand of thick, unruly black hair behind her ear as she smoothed out the wrinkles in his sheets. While she and a certain Marius Pontmercy may have been childhood friends, the cold truth was she would never be anything more than a housemaid in his grandfather's service. And he...he was studying to be a lawyer at the Sorbonne. In Paris.

At first, he had written often. Hardly a week would go by before Monsieur Gillenormand would summon her to the library and hand her another letter. Then, as the months went on, the letters started coming every two weeks before slowing to a paltry note every month. But she understood. He was busy. She was patient. The school year would be ending soon and he had already apologized for his lack of response.

He had even begged her not to stop writing.

"Eponine, are you almost done in the young master's bedroom?" Azelma barked from the door. Eponine jumped, glaring at her impatient sister.

"Nearly. It would go faster if you would make yourself useful," she said. Azelma rolled her eyes.

"I would, if _you_ would let me do anything. Honestly, 'Ponine, it's just sheets. We'll have to change them as soon as he sleeps in them."

"Then go and start airing the guest room," she said, tucking the covers just the way she knew Marius liked them. "Monsieur Gillenormand said Marius might be bringing a friend to stay a fortnight."

"But...that's supposed to be in July!"

Eponine pursed her lips. "That room hasn't been aired out in months. It'll take that long just to get the dust out."

Azelma let out a great sigh, dramatically dragging her feet as she stomped down the corridor. Eponine shook her head. Her sister was lucky that Monsieur Gillenormand was out visiting the factories this morning; the old man couldn't stand the Thenardiers and only tolerated Eponine because she was competent and to humor his grandson.

Glancing around Marius' room, Eponine felt her heart plummet. From the bed to his nightstand, everything was crafted from the finest mahogany, the sole exception being his wardrobe, which was made from a fragrant cedar. Inside, were the clothes that he had not taken with him to Paris; the fancy waistcoats, dinner jackets and his riding clothes. His desk was littered with political books and the occasional novel, as well as half-empty ink wells and pens, all neatly arranged from the mess he had made over the Christmas holidays. And in the corner, there was a gilded antique mirror that had once belonged to his mother.

Eponine stared at her reflection. She was still too thin, but her cheekbones were less pronounced than when she had first met Marius as a child. Her dark, unruly hair was pulled back into a severe bun—as was customary in service—but she never managed to tame the few stray curls that always managed to slip out. The one thing that hadn't changed was her eyes. They were still a deep brown, guarded and in her mind, dull.

She might have been pretty, once, if her father had not gambled away the inn in Montfermeil. But then she might have never met Marius.

Tearing her eyes away from the mirror, she fingered the letter in her pocket. Deep in her heart, Eponine knew that one day she would have to give him up. That no matter how much he insisted he believed in equality, he would marry a lady, not a penniless servant girl. But, she thought as she took one last glance around his room, today was not that day.

* * *

Marius returned in the middle of June, and with him, came the tidings of summer. In the days just before his arrival, the house seemed to hum with new life. Monsieur Gillenormand resumed his morning walks, and Eponine had her hands full with last minute arrangements. The cook had prepared all of Marius' favorite foods and Azelma, who had only begun working in the spring, had peppered her sister with questions about the young master. Eponine kept her answers vague. It wouldn't do to know too much, and one infatuated Thenardier sister was more than enough trouble.

It took him three days to seek her out, and even then, only to ask her opinion about some friend he had mentioned in his last letter. The mischief in his eyes dimmed slightly when he perceived her indifference, leaving her with a sinking feeling in her gut. After a night of wringing her hands together, she decided she was being stupid. Marius wasn't a meddling old woman. He was simply blind. And blind was better than the alternative.

Today the cook had whipped up a light vegetable stew with some crusty bread on the side. Eponine eyed the clock. It was only a quarter past one. Marius never ate before half-past. She fiddled with the corner of the silver tray on the countertop before straightening the utensils for the umpteenth time.

Since his return, Eponine's days had turned into a waiting game. Her mornings were filled with the anticipation of catching Marius in the hallways as she bounded up the stairs to clear the breakfast table. He usually had a smile for her, which kept her heart thrumming within her chest until luncheon.

For his midday meal, Eponine usually brought up a tray to his room from the kitchens. Usually, they would exchange a few words in the privacy of his room about whatever book he was reading. Sometimes, he would even ask her to read over his letters. Every day, she begged him to slow down and appreciate his lunch. Every day, he laughed and said she was mothering him. Still, it was fifteen minutes of heaven. Then she was off to help prepare for dinner, dreading the long hours until she could see him again in the morning.

On days when she had little work and Monsieur Gillenormand had gone to the village, they took leisurely afternoon strolls in the garden. There he regaled her with stories of his friends, the infamous ABC and Cafe Musain. Once, he told her how much he wished she could be there at university with him. She went to bed that night with a smile plastered on her face, replaying the memory in her mind over and over again until Azelma turned out the lights in their shared room.

"Thinking of him again, are you?" Azelma asked as she leaned against the kitchen counter. Eponine sputtered.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about."

"You can't play dumb with me 'Ponine," Azelma said, rolling her eyes. "Not when you've got that stupid grin on your face. You can tell me who he is you know...Oh, is it Parnasse?"

"Good god, no." Eponine cast a sidelong glance at her sister, who was now staring at her intently, chin propped up against her palm. "What gave you that horrendous idea?"

"It ain't _that _horrendous. He's got a pretty face, that one. He asks about you a lot, y'know. In his letters."

"Isn't. Not ain't," Eponine said. "In any case, tell him to stop asking. Better yet, burn those letters. Or even better, don't write to him at all. A pretty face isn't everything 'Zelma."

Her sister rolled her eyes. _Montparnasse_. The name tasted sour on her tongue. She wondered how he'd managed to get released from jail so early. Last she checked, he still had a year left on his sentence. Eponine fought the shiver that ran down her spine as she pictured his charming smile and the feel of his hand on the small of her back. So far he hadn't bothered to make the trip down for a visit. He was probably too busy running errands for their father. She prayed it stayed that way.

"Easy for you to say. All the good boys like you, Ponine."

"Don't be stupid," Eponine said, flushing. "I've got to bring up this tray. Just promise me you won't say a word to 'Parnasse."

Azelma's face twisted into a scowl. "You take the fun out of _everything_."

"Promise me, Zelma."

"Fine," her sister said, waving dismissively as she turned toward the servants' quarters. "I promise. Just go bring the prince his soup."

Eponine watched her sister's retreating figure with a clenched jaw. _If 'Parnasse is sniffing around..._She shook her head. That part of her life was over and done with.

* * *

She didn't have to knock on the door when she reached his room; he'd left it open for her. His back was to her as he poured over a letter on his writing desk, and he had forgone the waistcoat in favor of a loosely buttoned-up shirt with rolled up sleeves. Clearing her throat, she willed herself to keep her eyes on the back of his head and not the finely corded muscles of his forearm.

"Lunch, Monsieur Marius," she said.

"Ah, good. Just the person I wanted to see," Marius said smiling. She returned the smile, her hands gripping the edge of the tray until her knuckles turned white.

"What can I help you with today?"

"Do you remember the friend I mentioned in my previous letter?"

She nodded, placing the tray on his desk where it was promptly ignored.

"He's written saying he's accepted my offer to visit in July," Marius said. "I'm writing my reply now...and I wanted to know if you would meet him when he comes."

"I...don't understand. Of course I'll meet him if he is a guest here—"

"No, no," Marius said, waving in mid air. "Not as a maid. As my dearest friend. Brilliant as he is, I think Enjolras could use some perspective."

Eponine fought to separate the swelling pride in her heart from the creeping dread settling in at the pit of her stomach. Thenardiers were good actors; she knew what Marius wanted from her, what he wanted to hear from her. And she had never been one to deny him anything that was in her power to give.

"Well, when you put it like that, monsieur, how can I refuse?" She was rewarded well when he graced her with a radiant smile. Eponine took a moment to marvel at how the little boy she had befriended reappeared whenever he did.

"Excellent. Just excellent!"

He reached out and time slowed. His hands were warm as they squeezed her shoulders, and she felt a burst of electricity run up her spine. He was so close she could smell the warm and spicy scent of his cologne. If God had struck her down in that very instant, it would have been alright. She could make her peace if the world ended and left them there, hand-in-hand, for all eternity.

But the moment passed. She excused herself and he returned to writing his friend. The rest of the day flew by in a daze. Eponine even forgot to be nervous about meeting a man Marius described in his letter as "savage Antinous reborn."

* * *

"Ponine, have you ever seen someone so beautiful?" Azelma whispered as they stood at attention.

She hadn't. She had thought Marius exaggerated his descriptions of his friend, this stoic Enjolras. But as he climbed out of the motor, she could see that for once, every word her excitable friend had written was true.

"Everyone, this is my dear friend Gabriel Enjolras. He shall be staying with us a fortnight."

Marius' friend bowed his head sharply in acknowledgement, a severe expression on his face. Once upon a time, she had thought Montparnasse, with this dark eyes and wild hair, to be the most handsome man she'd ever seen. Then, she had met Marius. Her heart had melted ever since she first saw his lopsided, impish grin. But, despite all her love, Eponine had to admit their guest was the paragon of male beauty.

As Marius had wrote, Monsieur Enjolras was blessed with loose, golden curls that framed a pair of striking blue eyes. But he had made no mention of Enjolras' tall, broad-shouldered figure or the attractive sense of purpose in his bearing.

"I thank you for your hospitality," he said, studying each member of the household with an odd intensity.

When those eyes finally settled on her, Eponine found herself standing a bit straighter. And although she was used to staring down her father, there was something in his piercing gaze made her suddenly fascinated with her shoelaces. Squashing down the urge to run away, she dug her fingernails deeper into her palms.

His gaze lingered for what seemed like an eternity before abruptly moving to the next person. Letting out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, Eponine chanced a glance at her sister and was surprised to see Azelma already staring at her.

"What?" she hissed.

Azelma glared before facing forward again. "Nothing. It's nothing."

Eponine opened her mouth to say something, but Azelma scurried off as soon as Marius had dismissed them. Sighing, she remembered the sweet little girl who used to hide behind her skirts and whose hair she braided on rainy afternoons. Gavroche would be starting as a stableboy in less than a week. She prayed he wouldn't be nearly as difficult as Azelma.

"Oh, Eponine! Could you come here a moment?" Marius was calling her. Casting a wistful glance at Azelma's back, she put the matter from her mind and made her way to the motor.

"Is there something you needed me for, Monsieur?"

"As a matter of fact, there is. Would you mind showing Enjolras to his room while I help sort his luggage?" Marius asked, turning to face his friend. "We're not quite as grand as some other houses. We don't have a valet or chauffeur, but—"

"Marius, I am perfectly capable of dressing myself."

"Right this way, monsieur," Eponine cut in before Marius could protest. Now that she had been given a task, it was easier to slip into her role and forget Azelma's troubling attitude. "If you'll follow me."

She didn't wait for him before trudging up the walkway—she could tell exactly where he was from the sound of gravel crunching under his boots. He didn't ask any questions about the Gillenormand estate either, and for that she was grateful.

Upon entering the house, Eponine fought the urge to mutter obscenities under her breath. The foyer was crowded with no less than thirteen maids, each sneaking admiring glances at Antinous reborn while half-heartedly polishing and dusting already pristine furniture. Worst of all was Azelma—her sister was too busy staring dreamily from the top of the stairs to even try and pretend to work.

Thankfully, Enjolras was indifferent to the gaggle of blushing maids. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the portrait hanging over the telephone desk near the stairs.

"Who is this man?" His voice was a cool, clipped baritone that seemed to ring out through the room. Eponine tried her best to ignore the wave of soft sighs that followed.

"Monsieur Pontmercy. Monsieur Marius' father. He passed three years ago," Eponine answered. She was anxious to get him upstairs and to his room before Madame Hucheloup, the housekeeper, decided to investigate where all her housemaids had gone.

"And what sort of man was he?"

"It is not my place to say, monsieur. Perhaps it would be better to ask Monsieur Marius."

Eponine fidgeted as his eyes searched hers again. Hands clasped behind his back, Enjolras turned his body to face her. "Marius has already told me about his father. I would hear what you would say. Your honest opinion."

Most days, Eponine did not spare a thought for the portrait of George Pontmercy. It was a handsome painting, of that there was no doubt. But his painted smile rendered the portrait false. In life, his shoulders had slumped with the weight of the world. In life, his face had been lined with worry and despair. In life, Eponine had never seen him happy.

"He was...kind, monsieur. Kind...and sad. But you must be tired, how silly of me to keep you waiting." Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, but she was already halfway up the stairs. Cheeks flushed, Eponine decided then and there that she did not like Monsieur Enjolras.

* * *

For the past week and a half, Eponine had found herself wishing their guest had stayed in Paris. If it wasn't his "golden hair" or the "intensity of his gaze," the maids were blathering on about how courteous he was or his very vocal support of furthering class equality.

It didn't help that he seemed to be there every time she turned around.

In the mornings, he was always in the gardens while she helped Marie hang the washing. He spent his days lurking in the library, his name filling up three whole sheets in the ledger when she went to borrow a book during the afternoon lull between two and three o'clock. Sometimes, she found him in the stables grooming the horses when she went to seek out Gavroche, who had started his apprenticeship shortly after Enjolras arrived.

And even though her brother idolized him—nevermind Azelma, who fancied herself marrying him—her opinion of him failed to improve. In fact, it had soured even more after that ill-fated meeting at the cottages the night before. And now, Marius had sent word that he did not intend to take lunch. He was angry with her, a notion that left her stomach roiling.

_"Eponine_, what is wrong with you today girl? Are you not well?" She jumped as Madame Hucheloup slipped a cool hand over her forehead. "I've told you three times now that there's a young man at the back door waiting to speak with you."

"What?" Eponine's brows furrowed in confusion.

"A man. At the door. To see you." Madame Hucheloup frowned. "I can send him away if you're feeling ill."

"Who?"

"He didn't say what his name was, but your sister seems to know him," the housekeeper said with a shrug. "Mind you don't take too long. We've still got a lot to do before dinner!"

Eponine's blood ran cold as she ran off, leaving Madame Hucheloup muttering under her breath. Sure enough, _he_ was there, leaning against the doorframe as Azelma hung onto his every word. He was older now—more stubble, his face more angular—but judging by his fine clothes, prison had failed to instill the fear of God into Montparnasse.

"What are you doing here?" She hissed, shoving a startled Azelma behind her.

"It's nice to see you too, Eponine," Montparnasse said, enunciating each syllable of her name. His smile was still the same—slow, confident and full of poison. It was enough to send chills down her spine.

"Parnasse says Maman and Papa are in Paris now and they want us to come with them. Isn't that exciting?"

"Hush, Azelma," she snapped. "Madame Hucheloup is looking for you. There are still preparations for dinner," she added more gently when she noticed the hurt expression on her sister's face. It was easy to forget that a very long time ago, a kinder Montparnasse would come around with candies stashed in his pockets. They were stolen of course, but it had made Azelma and Gavroche so happy.

"The years have been _very_ good to you 'Ponine," Montparnasse drawled as he laid a gentle kiss on her hand once Azelma had disappeared from sight.

"I can't say the same for you," she said, snatching her hand back and wiping it on her apron. "What are you doing here? Is what Azelma said true?"

"'Ponine, you wound me," he said, laying a hand over his heart. "I've spent the last three years dreaming of you, but you've forgotten me completely."

"This is the last time I'll ask. Why are you here?"

A scowl twisting his handsome features, Montparnasse dusted an imaginary piece of lint from his suit jacket. "It's as your sister says. Your parents have sold the inn in Bordeaux and returned to Paris to to seek their fortunes." Eponine rolled her eyes. _Gambled it away again more_ like.

"So why have they sent you? They could've written," Eponine said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I've come to fetch you." He flashed her a toothy smile. "Playing maid to some little lordling doesn't suit you, 'Ponine."

"I think it suits me just fine."

Montparnasse frowned. "Come now. Whatever happened to the girl I knew? She would have been the queen of this house, not some no-name servant." He trailed a gloved hand down her cheek, leaning in until she could feel the heat of his breath tickle her ear. "What happened to my Eponine?"

Shutting her eyes, Eponine let out a shaky sigh. She remembered that girl very well. The one who had pretty dresses and dolls and all the books she could ever want. Before Azelma and Gavroche. Before Marius. Before things went bad. Or at least, before she was old enough to understand who her parents really were.

"She woke up," she said, pushing him away. Anyone could walk by and it wouldn't do for an unmarried girl to be seen so close to a man she had no attachment to. "And my parents didn't send you. The amount Azelma and I send them every month is more than generous. Why are you really here Parnasse? And don't lie."

"Come. Walk with me," he said as he offered her his arm. "And don't make that face. It's a story best kept from overly curious ears."

Walking in silence, Eponine led her childhood friend toward a secluded pathway near the stables. Marius was not an avid rider and was unlikely to happen across them there. And in any case, she could easily tell Madame Hucheloup she had been checking in on her brother.

"Well, Montparnasse. Out with it. I don't have all day."

"As my lady commands," he said sneering. "You're to put in your notice and marry me at summer's end. Then we'll make our way to Paris, but not before cleaning out this lot."

Eponine blinked. "Don't be mad."

"There's nothing_ mad_ about it. You're of age now, and this was settled years ago," Montparnasse said, clenching his teeth.

"I refuse."

"You _can't_. It's been decided."

"I never agreed to marry you. You can't force me to marry you. I don't _want _to marry you. I won't marry you. I'll _never_ marry you." The words tumbled out of her mouth in a jumbled stream, her voice pitching higher and louder as she went on. Heart thudding in her chest, she watched as Montparnasse's handsome face grew redder and redder until he balled his hands into fists at his sides.

"Love, you're not fooling anyone," he spat. Without warning, his arms were coiled around her like a snake grabbing hold of its prey, his embrace tight and constricting, his breath hot and sour against her ear as he whispered, "He'll never even look twice at you. Oh yes, I know all about him—Azelma can be _quite_ the chatterbox. I know who stole my pretty little Ponine."

"Please 'Parnasse. You're hurting me. Just let me go," she choked.

"Am I _Parnasse _now?" he laughed. "No Ponine, I don't think so. I don't let go of what's _mine_."

Eponine shut her eyes, willing herself not to let hot tears spill down her face. She had been so careful. She hadn't written or breathed a word about her feelings for Marius to anyone. How could he know?

"Is there a problem here?"

Montparnasse's grip suddenly loosened. Opening her eyes, Eponine bit back a sob of relief as Enjolras stepped out of the stables, a frightened Gavroche peeking out from behind him.

"No monsieur," Montparnasse said with a slight bow, a mocking grin on his face. "Eponine and I have known each other all our lives. What's a friendly greeting between old companions?" He winked at her brother. "Hullo Gavroche. Long time no see."

Her brother shrank and cowered behind Enjolras, who rested an assuring hand on the boy's head.

"I wasn't speaking to you," Enjolras snapped. With two quick strides, he had stepped between her and Montparnasse. "Mademoiselle," he took her hand into his, "are you alright? Did he hurt you?" Not trusting herself to speak, Eponine shook her head.

"Now see here—"

"Leave. Before I summon the police. Inspector Javert will not be so forgiving."

Montparnasse shot her a dirty look before storming off toward the main pathway, throwing a kick at Gavroche, who was now clutching her skirt, as he passed. It wasn't until the brim of his hat had disappeared into the horizon that Eponine felt like she could finally breathe again.

"T-thank you, monsieur," she said, quickly slipping her hand from his. It was surprisingly callused for a scholar. The harsh words she had spat at him the night before rang loudly in her ears, shame prickling at her conscience.

"Did you know that man?" Eponine studied the uneven blades of grass underneath her shoes. Cheeks aflame, she could feel Enjolras' gaze boring into her skull.

"N-no, monsieur. I knew the boy he was, not the man he became."

"I see," he said, turning toward the house. "I'll fetch Marius. The police need to be informed and a proper report made—"

"No, you can't!" She blurted. Her hands had grasped the edge of his crimson waistcoat, causing Eponine to blush. "I mean, please. Please don't tell Monsieur Marius. Monsieur Gillenormand is not fond of our family. I could lose my place."

Standing very still, Enjolras' face seemed as if it had been etched from stone. The only sign of his displeasure was the speed in which his stormy eyes darted furiously between her, Gavroche and the house. Eponine could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he weighed his options.

"Very well," he said, his mouth forming a grim line. "Gavroche, inform Madame Hucheloup your sister has fallen ill and I have sent her to get some rest. I shall escort her back to the house."

Gavroche took off without another word, leaving her speechless and mouth agape. Not that he noticed—Enjolras had already started walking toward the house.

"Monsieur, wait!" she called out as she scurried after him.

"Yes?"

"How much did you hear? How much did my brother hear"

For the first time since he arrived, Enjolras averted his gaze to mask his expression behind a curtain of curls. "Enough," he said, clearing his throat. "I won't tell. Consider it an apology for upsetting you last night."

With that he turned abruptly and resumed walking toward the house. Watching him, Eponine couldn't help but notice the strange beating of her heart.

_Marius, what strange friends you have._

* * *

The next morning, Marius had summoned her to his room and bade her to tell him everything she knew about Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. She recognized the new sparkle in his eye, the lightness in his step, the breathlessness of his voice—and it sucked all the air out of her lungs.

When she said she knew nothing other than one unpleasant experience at the market—an event that had never happened—it was the first time she had willfully ever lied to Marius.

Cosette. The little lark and her mother had lived at the inn in Montfermeil for two years when they were children. Her name hadn't been Fauchelevent back then. There hadn't been a father either. But it mattered little. The scraggly little girl who had trailed behind her and Azelma now had everything Eponine ever wanted.

The least she could have done was been a hateful wretch. But no. Cosette was pleasant, well-mannered and exactly the type of girl that boys like Marius were supposed to fall in love with. Sitting with him over the past two days, helping him pin down his affections for another woman into words, Eponine had transformed herself into a less homely Cyrano de Bergerac.

The offending letter sat heavily in her apron pocket. Marius had written it that morning, and Cosette Fauchelevent was set to travel to Paris on the five o'clock train. She ran her fingers along the fine paper of the envelope. It burned against her skin.

Not unlike the mysterious fever eating away at Enjolras.

Eponine sighed as she moved to replace the towel on his forehead with another from a basin of cool water. The fever had struck him suddenly and without mercy after dinner with the Fauchelevents. A doctor had been by that morning, but after an hour of hemming and hawing, could find no cause for his sudden illness. Marius had entrusted her with his care—a charge which made her heart both sing with pride and fill with unease.

"You are the most troublesome guest we've ever had," she whispered. Despite her dislike of the man, he had saved her from Montparnasse and treated Gavroche with kindness. So in some small way, it pained her to see him writhing in constant agony, limbs slick with sweat and twisted in the sheets. It was a small miracle that he had slept for the better part of an hour—ever since a winded, frantic Azelma had burst into the room with a strange tincture that she said had prescribed by the town doctor. She made Eponine swear to give it to him a dose every hour until his fever broke, and only then did her distraught sister agree to return to her duties.

Brushing aside his curls, which stuck to his forehead, Eponine frowned. For such a cold man, his skin felt like fire. "Monsieur Enjolras, wake up," she said, shaking his shoulder. "You must have your medicine."

Eyes fluttering open, Enjolras moaned as she threw his arm over her shoulder to prop him up against the pillows. His bleary eyes followed her movements as she uncorked the small green bottle Azelma had given her and mixed three small drops into a glass of water.

"I'm afraid this won't taste very pleasant monsieur," she said. "But I've been instructed you must drink all of it."

"Give it here," he croaked, reaching out for the glass with a shaky hand. "I'm not a child."

Eponine bit her tongue, reminding herself that sick men were exempt from the rules of polite society. True to his word, he drank the entire mixture in one go, grimacing as he wiped the remains from his lips with his sleeve before succumbing to a fit of violent coughs.

"There, there, monsieur," Eponine said, gently rubbing his back as she pried the glass from his hand before it dropped and shattered on the floor. "I warned you it wouldn't be pleasant."

"Thank you," he said once the coughing had subsided. "I am sorry to take you away from your duties."

"Monsieur Marius has charged me with your recovery. Taking care of you is my duty," she said. Wiping his brow, she did her best to avoid his stare. Even with a deathly pallor, he was still a beautiful man.

"Do you always do what Marius tells you?"

"Yes. Even if we are childhood friends, I am still a maid gainfully employed in his service," Eponine said.

Enjolras sat in silence for a few moments, his brow furrowed in thought. "And does he know you're in love with him?"

"I-I beg your pardon?" she sputtered.

"I asked if Marius was aware of your affections."

Eponine's mouth hung open.

"I'll take that as a 'no,' then," he said dryly. "Then forgive me for being blunt, but I feel I owe you this kindness. Marius fancies himself in love with Mademoiselle Fauchelevent."

"I-I know," she said softly, her eyes dropping back down her to her lap. Brushing her fingertips against the outline of the letter in her pocket, she felt the warm prick of tears welling up in her eyes.

"I am here, not in your lap. It's rude not to look at the person you're speaking to."

"Why do you always say such horrible things to people? Have you no compassion?"

"None for idiocy."

"Loving someone is not _idiocy_," Eponine hissed.

"No, love is never idiocy," Enjolras said slowly. "But Marius does not and will never love you in that way."

Eponine inwardly cursed herself as she felt hot, fat tears trickle down her cheeks. She didn't trust herself to speak, lest her words be swallowed by gasping sobs. Shoulders heaving, she tried to bury her face in her hands when she felt his fingers burn against her wrists. _You are cruel, monsieur_. _You will not even let me mourn my broken heart._

"I would not have you waste your tears on Marius Pontmercy," he said softly. "Marius has always been a blind fool, but you are only an idiot if you refuse to face the truth."

"I wish you had never come here," she whispered through clenched teeth.

Enjolras' lips twisted in a grimace as he quickly let go of her wrists. Leaning back against the pillows, he made no motion to stop her as she finally covered her face with her hands.

"Cry then. I will not try to stop you."

This time, Eponine did not hesitate to obey.

* * *

Eponine spotted the lark just before the train pulled in. It wasn't hard. Cosette had always stood out amongst the crowd. She had had every intention of telling Marius she hadn't been able to reach Cosette in time, but Enjolras' words would not let her rest—even now they still echoed inside her head.

"Mademoiselle Fauchelevent!"

The light from the setting sun bounced off Cosette's curls as she turned from the train, and suddenly, Eponine was struck by a sense of calm and the pangs of regret. The orange-red light had created an almost heavenly halo and for the first time, she understood without jealousy why Cosette had been the one to steal Marius' heart. Dumbly, she held out the letter from her pocket.

"A letter from Marius Pontmercy," she said. Cosette's shy smile should have been enough to send a knife through her, but before the lark could offer any thanks, they were interrupted by the shrill of the conductor's whistle.

Eponine did not wait. She curtseyed quickly and ran in the other direction, her heart pounding against her ribs. She may have been a fool and an idiot and blind, but her conscience was clear.

* * *

AN: Kudos if you made it this far. I just kept writing and writing and writing. So a couple of small references to Endless Waltz thrown in here and there. There'll be more of the reincarnation bits in future chapters, but this was mostly here to set up the first world of the "revolution" cycle.

That Enjolras. Whatta heartbreaker, eh?


	3. Interlude, Letters of Marius Pontmercy

**AN: **Again, thanks for the lovely reviews, favorites and follows. Some more of Marius' letters and reading between the lines in this chapter...but there'll definitely be more Enjonine next chapter. Not that there isn't any in this chapter. You just might have to read more carefully to find it ;).

As always, feedback is my crack.

* * *

_Interlude—The Letters of Marius Pontmercy, 1914_

_May 22, 1914_

_Enjolras, _

_ My friend, I am forever indebted to you and Courfeyrac for agreeing to help me settle my grandfather's estate. Not a day goes by when I am not overwhelmed by the suddenness of his passing. We shall expect you on the 11 o'clock train in a week. Gavroche still speaks fondly of you and is eagerly awaiting your arrival. Eponine also sends her regards._

_ Though, my friend, I do admit I have another favor to ask of you. I know you do not wholly approve of my beloved, but I ask that you try and see the virtues of her sweet and kind character. I am most anxious for you both to get along._

_Your friend,_

_Marius_

* * *

_June 1, 1914_

_Grantaire,_

_ I admit I was surprised to receive your letter, or should I say interrogation? What length! I confess I do not think I have absorbed every detail of the correspondence. Should you not have written Enjolras directly? But I suppose our taciturn leader would not reveal all that you wish to know. _

_ I would not worry about Enjolras finding a suitable wife in the near future. These days he is consumed with talk of the results of the recent elections, the growing discontent in the Balkans and England's recent decision to grant Home Rule in Ireland. Your concern for our friend is most heartwarming. Your lack of concern for myself or Courfeyrac is less so._

_ If I may be so bold, I would advise you to fixate less on Enjolras and confront the real reason you take such interest in the identity of his yearnings._

_ It will happen. You are worthy. One day, you will find the love of your life, and perhaps he will be the one who convinces you to give up the bottle. _

_ But in the meantime, Courfeyrac has captured the hearts of the housemaids, who now seem immune to Enjolras' charms. So do not worry that Enjolras will—what was the term you used?—"sow seeds where they are not meant to be sowed."_

_ Truly, if you are so concerned, perhaps you should take the next train down and help us in our work. My grandfather's men are competent but they love me not, and the days are long and arduous. And if you only saw her, you would not laugh when I speak of the loveliness that is my wife-to-be. No, I have not proposed yet, but I know deep within my soul it shall be so. _

_ Your friend,_

_ Marius_

* * *

_June 20, 1914_

_ Dear Monsieur Fauchelevent:_

_ I write to you concerning your daughter Cosette. I would rather address you in person, but Mademoiselle has informed me that you will be away in England until August. _

_ Over the past year, I have come to know your daughter through our correspondence, and confess that I have fallen in love. Returning home this summer has only confirmed the depth of my affections. Please, I beg you not to be angry with her for writing to me. Our letters were born of an innocent apology I wrote the day after you and your honorable brother dined at the Pontmercy estate. _

_ I must extend these apologies to you and your brother as well. My friend Enjolras, while brilliant, is a blunt man who was deprived of gentleness in his youth. He burns with a righteous fervor, but means no harm._

_ As you may well know, my grandfather recently passed due to a sudden illness and has left me with a sizable fortune. I would be more than capable of providing your daughter a comfortable life and it would be my honor to spend the rest of my years basking in the warmth of her gentle spirit. I would do all in my power to secure her happiness and comfort._

_ But while I love Cosette, I would not presume to overstep a father's right. I write to ask your permission for her hand, and humbly await your reply. Grant it, and you shall make me the happiest man on Earth. Deny me and I will respectfully maintain my distance._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Marius Pontmercy_

* * *

_July 5, 1914_

_ To the Friends of the ABC:_

_ I am to be married. _

_ Of course, now all of Europe waits with bated breath following the assassination of the Archduke of Austria-Hungary. But it is for that very reason that my beloved and I have decided to have the ceremony by the end of the year. It would be an honor for you all to attend. _

_ After a month, Enjolras and I have nearly completed the task of settling my grandfather's estate. Courfeyrac has returned to Paris with this letter, for reasons that shall go unspoken. No doubt you have all guessed already. Try not to tease him too much—it will only please him._

_ Dear Antinous will be returning within a fortnight, and I will follow by the end of the month. The house has barely finished grieving my grandfather and now it must again bustle with life to prepare for the wedding. A last farewell to extravagance, if you will—Cosette and I have decided to live much more humbly than my late grandfather would like. But neither of us have the heart to eliminate staff to maintain my grandfather's standard of living. Still, I would be loathe to deprive Cosette of the wedding feast she deserves. _

_ Laugh all you like. It shall happen to all of you, and sooner rather than later. Except for, perhaps, Enjolras. The women here in Provence are not only beautiful, but also blessed with wit and charm. And yet, he remains as marble, cold and impervious. _

_ Though sometimes, I find him in the stables or the gardens with a lonely look in his eye. Eponine tells me the staff finds him to be prone to fits of passion and melancholy. The former is no surprise. The latter is...concerning. Perhaps there is a Parisian lady that I am unaware of? He will not say and insists I am imagining things._

_ -Marius_

* * *

_August 5, 1914_

_ Dearest Cosette,_

_ How the world has changed since I last kissed you goodbye. The German Empire has declared war upon Russia and France, and the government has ordered the mobilization of all troops. Conscription will undoubtedly follow._

_ Many at the Sorbonne have enlisted, bound by their patriotic duty. But I am not among them. I am not eager to gamble away our future when life has yet to truly begin. Every night, I remember the solemn vows we made and my promise to forever live for your happiness. Though conscription may render this act futile, let it be known that I shall never leave your side for the battlefield of my own free will._

_ My actions will brand me a coward among men. But I would brave condemnation and ridicule for a thousand years if it means I live to spend one more day with you. Fear not, my love, for I am not the assassination of Jean Jaures has left us all mute with grief, the friends of the ABC stand strong against the specter of war. _

_ My heart's deepest desire is that I may return home safe to you. But if the world should end tomorrow, I love you, I love you, I love you._

_ Marius_

* * *

_October 15, 1914_

_ My darling,_

_ Paris grows uneasy as the Germans encroach on the western front; Lens has been lost and there is talk the government will soon relocate to Bordeaux._

_ My friend Feuilly has been the first to be called to service. He is a self-made man without the connections afforded by family and status—a deplorable truth, but a truth nonetheless. Enjolras, as persuasive as he is, has failed to convince our friend to become a conscientious objector. Feuilly is too honorable a man._

_ "What life would there be for a coward after the war? No one will buy my fans."_

_ I had no words. After all, he is not wrong. Only Enjolras was bold enough to say what the rest of us were thinking. "No one will be able to buy fans made by a dead man."_

_ Feuilly will report for his medical at the end of the week and be gone soon after. Summer has ended my love, and with it the golden dreams of our youth._

_ I have enclosed a letter to Eponine from Enjolras. He says it is of utmost importance, but would not divulge its contents. You are a kind and gentle soul, so I will put my trust in your discretion._

_ I count the days until our wedding, when I may hold you in my arms again. Until then, I shall have to content myself with whispering your name to the stars. _

_ Your Marius_

* * *

_October 15, 1914_

_ Eponine,_

_ I was surprised when Enjolras gave me this letter to send to you. He would not speak a word regarding its content, saying that as your __lawyer__ he is not at liberty to say. Should I be concerned? I know I have been caught up in the wedding, but it pains me that you did not come to me for help._

_ Cosette and I are always here if you should need it._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Marius_

* * *

**AN: **Ooooh. What _is _Enjolras writing to Eponine? And why does she need a lawyer? Gasp. Answers next chapter.


	4. A revolutionary from Paris

**AN:** So sorry for the delay. This chapter was initially much longer. But then I ran into some story issues that have now been solved...by splitting it into two halves. That and I couldn't tinker around with this anymore (I hope you guys forgive me if it's not up to the usual quality). Hopefully this means I'll be faster with the next chapter. Fingers crossed, but you guys have kept me ultra busy with tumblr prompts too!

Thanks to everyone who has either reviewed, favorited or followed this story thus far. Feedback is my crack.

* * *

Chapter Two: A Revolutionary from Paris

Peering out the motorcar window, Enjolras marveled at how little things changed outside of Paris. The city was always loud, bustling and brimming with life in every nook and cranny. The Pontmercy estate was only a train ride and a 20-minute drive away from the city's center, and yet it was surrounded by verdant fields and clear, cloudless skies. Here, the only noises were the chirping of birds and the hum of a single motorcar barreling down quaint country roads. Here, he was free of the click-clacking of women's shoes against the pavement, drunken students and the bawdy laughter that permanently reverberated off the walls of Cafe Musain.

Had it really been an entire year since he first made the trip? Swallowing, he loosened the tie around his neck. His red waistcoat was still in good condition, though the fabric was a bit worse for wear. Enjolras frowned. He rarely bothered to care about the state of his clothes. He had been to the Pontmercy estate before and Marius, though an idealistic fool, was a friend. There was no one to impress.

"Enjolras, you seem flushed. Are you alright?" Courfeyrac asked, an easy smile spreading across his face.

"It is hotter in the countryside," he said stiffly.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

Enjolras cast a sidelong glance at his friend. Courfeyrac was a handsome man, with dark curls and warm brown eyes that often danced with secret laughter. He was not quite as pretty as Pontmercy, but his easy manner made him a favorite among the young ladies of Paris. All this he knew, but his friend's prowess with the fairer sex had never bothered him until now.

"So Marius' beloved, is she truly as beautiful as he makes her out to be?"

Enjolras snorted as he tried to conjure a half-forgotten image of Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. All he could remember was that she had been comely, in a forgettable way, with honey-colored locks and a pleasing mouth that spoke pretty words.

"She is...adequate."

"Adequate?" Courfeyrac laughed. "Pontmercy claims she is an angel from heaven and you say she is adequate?"

"Far too innocent for your tastes then," Enjolras replied, smirking.

"A pity. And what of Pontmercy's friend? The maid...You know, the one who used to write all those letters," Courfeyrac said, scratching at his head. "What was her name...Pontmercy used to blather on all the time... Evangeline?... No... Eveline?"

Enjolras stilled, his mind slipping back in time to savor the memory of cool hands resting against his forehead. They had parted on slightly better terms after his illness, but her eyes had never regarded him as a friend. Even so, she had smiled at him the day he left—brief and fleeting, but a smile nonetheless.

"Her name was Eponine," he said softly.

"Eponine!" Courfeyrac cried. "That's right! What about her? Pontmercy's always going on about making an introduction."

When he closed his eyes, Enjolras could still see her doubled over in the chair next to his bed as tears seeped through her fingers. He could still hear the echoes of her sobs. He remembered the directness of her gaze and the gentle rasp of her voice, the quiet fury in her clenched jaw and fists.

"Enjolras...?"

"What?"

"What's the matter with you?" Courfeyrac said, waving his hand in front of Enjolras' eyes. "I asked what she was like. And don't say 'adequate.'"

"I imagine you'll find out for yourself soon enough," he said, his stomach dropping as the outline of the Pontmercy estate appeared on the horizon. "Oh look, we're here."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a spoilsport?"

* * *

Dinner had been a tedious affair. Marius' beloved Cosette, her father, the vicar and a neighboring family had decided to welcome them in person, meaning discussion had been filled with the overly pious ramblings of a mediocre priest and the dull platitudes of well-bred ladies. He didn't contribute much in the way of conversation—his only god was Patria, his only religion the betterment of the state. Enjolras was fairly certain the vicar wouldn't care to hear that.

But now, here they were, in the parlor. Enjolras shifted in his seat as he listened to the vicar try and lift Marius' spirits with talk of the virtues of Christ and the glories in Heaven that awaited his grandfather. Cosette was busy entertaining the other ladies, and at the other end of the room her father occupied himself with studying the portrait of Marius' mother hanging over the fireplace, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. For his part, Courfeyrac was nursing a glass of brandy and prattling on in a hushed whisper about one of the maids he had seen while strolling through the gardens that afternoon.

Enjolras sighed and took a sip of wine. When it came to love, Marius was an idiot and Courfeyrac was little better.

His grandfather was barely cold in the grave and yet Marius spent the greater portion of his days singing the praises of one Cosette Fauchelevent. And Courfeyrac... Every day a new maid had "captured his soul" with an assortment of smoldering gazes, sensual smiles or tinkling laughter.

At times like these, Enjolras found himself wishing he could just walk down to Musain and have a sensible conversation with Combeferre—or even Grantaire, who despite his proclivity for drink, had never babbled at length on the virtues of women. And if he did have to listen to someone blather on about a woman, he would have preferred it to be Jehan—at least then, it would've been poetry.

"Enjolras, are you listening to me?"

"Of course," he muttered, fixing Courfeyrac with a cool stare. "Her hair is 'as flaxen as ripening wheat and her emerald eyes emanate warmth.' A bit trite if you ask me."

Courfeyrac scowled, downing the last of his drink. "I'd like to see you do better."

At that moment, the butler strode into the room with a low bow to Marius, who seemed eager for a distraction from the vicar's well-intentioned sermon.

"Monsieur, Eponine has returned from Paris. She seemed tired so I thought it best to send her to bed," the butler said.

"Of course," Marius said. "She must be exhausted. Tell her we shall discuss her trip in detail in the morning."

Enjolras' ears perked. So she hadn't run off with the dandy after all. He'd assumed the worst when he hadn't caught a single glimpse of her over the past few days. For reasons unknown, it felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

"You sent her to Paris?"

The words had slipped out without a thought and judging by the mischievous looks Marius and Courfeyrac were exchanging, inquiring had been a mistake.

"Yes, I mentioned Cosette needed something from Paris and she volunteered," Marius said brightly, struggling to keep a knowing smile off his face. "She's been a good friend. I haven't told her yet but Cosette is keen to take Eponine on as her lady's maid."

To their disappointment, Enjolras merely nodded dismissively. Without further distraction, the vicar returned to his sermon and Courfeyrac to the virtues of his latest conquest. He turned over the information in his head, examining the situation from every possible angle. She had _volunteered_ to run an errand for the woman Marius was so obviously in love with. Marius—who was currently eyeing Cosette's father with a look bordering on anxiety—hadn't the slightest clue about Eponine's feelings, or he would have never been so cruel. And she had apparently thrown herself so far into Cosette's service that her rival now considered her worthy of promotion.

There were only two possible motives. One he immensely disliked, the other he found immensely...disappointing.

Frowning, Enjolras sipped his wine. In any case, it was clear that she hadn't heeded his advice, a fact that bothered him more than he cared to admit. But he did not suffer fools. He had done his duty and repaid her kindness for her care when he had been ill.

There was nothing more to be done, and that was that.

* * *

He was in the library pouring over ledgers and legal documents when she finally made her entrance a few days later. Head in hand, his vision swam with numbers and receipts and snippets of legal babble. Marius was right in asking for help—but finding a solution to Monsieur Gillenormand's crippling debts would be a Herculean task.

As always, she burst into his life without warning. One minute, the silence in the library had been deafening and the next, it was filled with the rustle of skirts and the clink of silverware against china. When he lifted his head from his papers, she was standing there with a tray of sandwiches and a pot of coffee. The smile that spread across his lips was involuntary.

She was exactly as he remembered, except perhaps a bit more tired. If possible, she had gotten thinner and he spied the beginnings of dark circles under her eyes. But those eyes—they had not changed. They were still impossibly dark, glittering with hidden thoughts and forgotten secrets. Those eyes met and held his gaze. Those eyes challenged him without fear.

"If you insist on exiling yourself for dinner, then I'm afraid I have no choice but to bring it to you."

"Thank you," he said as he rose to clear some space from underneath stacks of yellowing ledgers and unbound papers.

"It's the least I could do. We are all indebted to you and Monsieur Courfeyrac for helping to settle the late master's affairs," she replied, setting the tray down onto the table. "I hope roast beef is to your liking."

"It will more than suffice. Though it is too early for your thanks." Enjolras grimaced, his gaze lingering over the silver inlay of the tray and gold filigree of the china. It amazed him how one man could hemorrhage so much money and still own such finery. It was incomprehensible that the man was even related to Marius, who by his account had always seemed so prudent with his finances.

"Is it truly _this_ bad, monsieur?" Eponine asked, her voice hitching. "The estate will be bankrupt by the end of the year."

Enjolras tore his gaze from the flatware to find Eponine leafing through a ledger, her brow wrinkled with concentration. Marius and his accountant Mabeuf had argued for hours over the contents of that particular balance sheet. Courfeyrac had taken one look at the poorly scribbled figures and shoved it at Enjolras after only a few minutes. And he... he had spent the greater part of four hours chasing down every thread in the complicated web that was the late Monsieur Gillenormand's creative bookkeeping.

"To a cruel man, the solution would be obvious." He picked up one of the sandwiches and took a bite. "But then many people would lose their livelihoods so that Marius may retain this manor."

"And a kind man? What would he do?" Eponine asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Enjolras chewed thoughtfully. That very question had been rattling around his brain for hours.

"A kind man would try to find a compromise. To make all necessary cuts before firing good people. I would explain the circumstances," Enjolras felt the edge of his mouth twitch upward as Eponine put down one ledger and picked up another, "but it seems you have a clear grasp of figures."

Eponine jumped and slammed the book shut. "I-I don't know what you mean, monsieur."

He wasn't sure why, but it satisfied him to know he had succeeded in breaking the infuriating calm she showed the rest of the world. But the moment passed—sooner than he would have liked—and to his great irritation, an impassive Eponine had returned to burying her nose in the next ledger.

"You know, I don't believe I've ever met a housemaid so well-versed in mathematics."

"You must not know very many housemaids then," she retorted. "But surely, there must be an easier way to resolve this."

"Barring a quick marriage to some wealthy heiress? No," he said, eyes narrowing as Eponine flinched. "And you and I both know Marius is too kind and much too enamored with Mademoiselle Fauchelevent to even consider such an arrangement."

Eponine froze at the mention of Cosette, her unseeing eyes glued to the pages in front of her. Suspicions confirmed, Enjolras dropped his sandwich back onto the tray. It would be wrong to say she had somehow disappointed him or been ungrateful, but he could find no other way to describe his sudden loss of appetite.

"Mademoiselle Fauchelevent is...very gracious," she said after a long pause, "and Marius is happier than I've ever seen him. Most days, that's enough."

"And on the other days?"

"On those days," she said slowly, "I try to remember how you told me it's not worth my tears."

Sniffling, she hurriedly wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Guilt bloomed in the pit of Enjolras stomach; it seemed that despite his best efforts he was exceptionally skilled at upsetting her.

Reaching into his pocket, Enjolras pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it into her palm. "You've had a long day. Get some rest. I'll be fine."

She didn't wait to be told twice. As soon as the words had fallen from his lips, she had all but ran from the library. He stared after her, the tick-tocking of the clock booming through the silence.

At his side, the tray sat untouched and forgotten.

* * *

At the start of June, Enjolras took to barricading himself in the library. Marius and Courfeyrac joined him in the mornings, and together, the three of them tried to devise a solution to the insolvency of the Gillenormand estate.

Marius often left just before lunch for his daily walks with Cosette, while Courfeyrac was prone to bouts of restlessness in the mid-afternoon. Neither had a mind for plans and figures. Enjolras only managed through sheer determination; mathematics had never been his strong suit but he was consumed by his conviction to save as many livelihoods as possible. His every hour had purpose and every minute spent in idleness left him champing at the bit.

But even Enjolras took and hour or two each day to escape the unending dance between income and expenditures. Such precious free time was spent either strolling the gardens or in the stables caring for the horses and educating Gavroche.

Marius had long since given up on persuading Enjolras to join them for dinner. Instead, he sent Eponine bring him a tray that was always returned to the kitchens half-uneaten. Sometimes she stayed only long enough to drop off his meal before scurrying away to finish some other work. Other times, she would spend a few minutes perusing a particular ledger or document, which would mysteriously find its way to the top of his workspace the next morning.

"I'm an innkeeper's daughter," she had said one evening when she caught him staring. "I learned the art of mismanaging expenses early."

Truth be told, he was often glad for the interruption. Most days, his head was left reeling after hours of scrutinizing papers. Today had been no different. He had spent the day sifting through an enormous box in which important receipts had been haphazardly mixed together with old correspondences. While he was sure Marius would have been pleased to rifle through some of the letters, Enjolras' only reward was a throbbing headache.

Stifling a groan, he massaged the bridge of his nose and cursed the day he ever agreed to help Marius. If only he had minded his own business. And even if he managed to accomplish this ridiculousness, it would go unnoticed.

"I've brought your dinner monsieur."

Enjolras nearly jumped in his seat as he spied Eponine's figure making her way across the library. He didn't think he'd ever get used to the way she seemingly appeared out of thin air or the silence that clung to her like a second skin. If not for the gentle tinkling of silverware, he might have even thought her voice to be a figment of his imagination.

"And what would Marius have me eat today?"

"Soup, and a bit of the chicken they're having downstairs," Eponine replied as she set the tray down on the emptiest part of the table. "But begging your pardon, you don't look very well."

"Just a headache. It will pass."

"It's no trouble monsieur. I can fetch some aspirin—"

"It's quite alright," he said, standing suddenly. "I'll not add to your burden. You've already done enough of that."

"I've had worse patients," she replied with a half smile. "It's not healthy to stay locked up in this library all day."

"We are nearly at a solution that would still leave Marius with a sizable fortune and minimize any collateral damage. I can rest all I like when the work is done," he said, eyeing the offending box of receipts. "Though we might have been done much sooner had Monsieur Gillenormand had kept more organized records."

"It's bad luck to speak ill of the dead, monsieur," Eponine said as she slowly wandered over to the pile of yellowing letters next to the tray. He watched intently as her fingers danced over the papers. "What are these? They seem familiar."

"I doubt it. Old love letters written by one of Marius' relatives in the 1830s," he said, making his way around to where she stood on the other side of the desk. He liked watching her read. There was something in the intensity of her gaze that struck him as both mysterious and familiar. It stirred something deep within his being. His eyes drank in the sight of her lips moving ever so slightly as she scanned each line.

"I've seen this before," she whispered, handing him a well-creased letter speckled with rust-colored flecks.

Enjolras frowned. It was a letter addressed to another Marius Pontmercy, perhaps a distant cousin of his friend, written on the eve of the June 1832 rebellion. Something about switching addresses and leaving for England by boat in the morning. In the last bit, the writer pledged her undying love. The ink at the bottom was too faded to make out a name.

"That's impossible. This letter is nearly a hundred years old," he said, setting it down gently on the desk. "And this box has probably been sealed for longer than you or I have been alive."

"But I _know_ I've seen it before," Eponine insisted, her hands shaking as she turned to face him. Her eyes were glassy, as if she was looking at him without really seeing him. "I kept it from him," she whispered, "and then there was this awful noise. And oh, it hurt. And you were there and it was all red."

"Eponine, you're talking nonsense," he chided softly. He lifted a hand to her forehead and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut when she jolted away from his touch. "You don't seem to be running a fever."

They stood there awkwardly for a moment, the air thick and tense. A flushed Eponine refused to meet his gaze and Enjolras was lost between the strange urge to comfort her or pretend as if nothing happened.

"Forgive me, monsieur. I don't know what came over me."

"It's alright. A sudden recollection of a nightmare, nothing more," he suggested, taking a half-step back. It would be easy to just reach out and touch her. Easy, but unwarranted.

"I...s'pose you're right." She shook her head and pressed her hands against her cheeks. "How strange. I could have sworn you were..."

"I was...? The dream me?"

She nodded, a faraway look in her eye. "It was you, but different. Younger. Angrier."

Her words sent a chill down his spine. When he had first entered the Sorbonne, he had been plagued by phantom sensations at every corner—an itch, so to speak, in the back of his mind. For his first year, Enjolras had been uneasy and restless, unable to sleep through the night without feeling like he had forgotten something utterly important. He had woken countless times with a name on his lips that disappeared from his memory as soon as he opened his eyes.

Those nights had faded once he had met Combeferre, then Courfeyrac and the others. It had been so long that he had simply forgotten. But now, he could remember the taste of gunpowder and fear, and fire burning in his chest. It was almost like the itch had returned.

But that was preposterous. It defied logic and replaced it with a game his mind concocted to explain why every time he looked at her, he felt so unnerved.

"It's late," he said finally. "Thank you again for the tray."

Looking up, Eponine seemed startled but managed a clumsy curtsy before taking her leave. He waited until the swish of her skirts disappeared behind the bookcases, and then, when he was sure he was alone, Enjolras released the air from his lungs, his body relaxing as he leaned against the edge of the desk. To his great discomfort, his heart pounded furiously against his ribcage as a strange electricity coursed through his veins, strengthening and weakening him at the same time.

He recognized the symptoms. Had felt them before when he was young and foolish. Why they had chosen to strike now, however, was a mystery. Enjolras shut his eyes and breathed in deeply, in and out, in and out until the feeling returned to his hands and he could no longer feel his heartbeat.

It was simply misplaced gratitude, coupled with innocent admiration. That was all.

* * *

Marius and Cosette had returned early from their walk that afternoon. She with a sizable diamond on her finger; he with at the goofiest grin in history.

The warmth of June was slowly but surely giving way to the sticky heat of July and August. It made holing himself up for hours in the library unbearable. So instead, he limited his work to the early mornings and spent his days wandering about the estate. In the evenings, he made a point of resuming dinners with the Marius and Courfeyrac and the rest of the Pontmercy entourage. After, they would discuss the tensions between Serbia and Austria-Hungary—Marius was convinced the situation would sort itself out. Enjolras was not. Courfeyrac usually excused himself early, and while Marius turned a blind eye (or perhaps he really was just blind), Enjolras chose to head off any conflict by allying himself with Madame Hucheloup. More often than not, Courfeyrac returned a few minutes later claiming restlessness, disappointment shining in his eye.

In any case, they would be leaving soon. Hours upon hours of leafing through ledgers, brokering deals, writing up contracts and sales had finally paid off. The ring on Cosette's finger was evidence of that.

The estate would be kept. Investments would be made at Monsieur Gillenormand's factories to improve efficiency and maximize profit. Clunky assets would be sold, mostly at a loss. And staff would be trimmed. He had told Courfeyrac and Marius to keep quiet on the last bit, but as in all houses, there were eyes and ears in every nook and cranny. Now he spent most of his mornings, afternoons and evenings dodging eager maids and footmen hoping to make a good impression.

For the most part, Enjolras went about his business. He had eyes enough to see who would be kept and who would have to go. Marius and his soon-to-be-wife could live comfortably and happily with a reduced household staff until their prospects improved, which if Marius was smart, wouldn't be long at all.

Funds had been set aside for those to be laid off and glowing letters of reference would be written. There was just one issue that gave him pause.

The world was modernizing. Monsieur Gillenormand had three motorcars. Two would be sold, but the one remaining motor would be enough to meet most of Cosette's transport needs when Marius was away at school.

Monsieur Gillenormand also had an entire stable of thoroughbred horses, which would fetch a fine sum if they were sold. Marius did not ride. Or at least, he didn't ride well. Now that his grandfather was dead, there was unlikely to be a hunt on the Pontmercy grounds for some time. There was only one logical choice.

Which was what had brought him here.

Enjolras' stomach churned at the sight of the stables in front of him. Inside, there was a young boy who was expecting him. A boy of whom he'd grown rather fond of and whose bright eyes followed him like he were some legendary hero brought to life. A boy whose entire purpose on the Pontmercy estate was about to be ripped away. Part of him wanted to blend into the darkness, to turn back toward the house and forget that he had taken on this nasty business at all.

But the boy was expecting him and if anything, Enjolras always kept his appointments.

His feet were heavy as he mustered the will to walk the rest of the way to the door, the sound of his boots muffled by tufts of straw littering the ground. As he drew closer, he could hear the high-pitched squeal of a young boy accompanied by a low, familiar chuckle.

"'Ponine, you have to _go_. Enjolras will be here any minute!"

"_Monsieur_ Enjolras, Gavroche."

"Aw, he ain't like that. He's a _socialist._"

Eponine laughed, and despite his conscience, the sound of it rooted Enjolras in his place. "And what do you know about socialism?"

"It means he's not like them other stuck up rich folk. You're not the only smart Thenardier, 'Ponine. He and Courfeyrac come visit me and teach me things, doncha know."

"Yes, I know. You're the envy of nearly every serving girl in the house. But you still have to address them properly—they might be nicer than most but they're not our friends. Not really."

"Even Monsieur Marius?"

There was a long silence, and then a sigh. The laughter had ended and even on the other side of the door, Enjolras felt the gloom descend over the stables like a thick fog.

"_Especially_ Monsieur Marius."

"But I thought—"

"You mustn't confuse kindness with friendship Gav. At the end of the day, Monsieur Marius is our employer."

"But...you've known him for _ages._ You always said he was your friend."

Eponine sighed. "That was before Monsieur Gillenormand died."

"...Will it always be this way 'Ponine?"

Gavroche's voice was small and trembled under the weight of a thousand hopes and dreams that hinged on whatever Eponine said next. A more sensible man might have sensed it was not his place to interfere and walked away. A more practical man might applaud the hard truth in Eponine's words. As it was, Enjolras took pride in that he was neither of those things and pushed his way into the room.

The siblings stared at him—Gavroche with barely hidden glee and Eponine with mild shock. He hadn't seen much of her since the incident in the library, and she looked...different. For one, she was out of her maid's uniform, dressed simply in a clean shirt and skirt. That and her hair fell in loose curls about her shoulders, softening her face from the world-weary mask she often wore in public.

He wondered if this was who she truly was, and then cursed the society that forced her to hide.

"I'm sorry I'm late."

"Enjolras!"

"Oompf," he grunted as the boy launched himself to his side, his arms wrapping fiercely around his waist. "It's good to see you too," he said, ruffling a hand through the boy's hair.

"_Gavroche_!" Eponine scolded, snapping out of her daze. The mask was back in place and Enjolras found himself resenting its return. "Monsieur Enjolras, please forgive my brother. He sometimes forgets his place."

The boy's arms just tightened around his waist, almost to the point where he couldn't breathe. "It's alright," he said, gently prying loose Gavroche's fingers. "When there are no ears to offend, I prefer to do without the formalities."

"_See_ 'Ponine. I _told_ you he weren't like them!"

"Wasn't, not weren't," Eponine pursed her lips, her coffee eyes flickering back and forth between them. "And I know he isn't. But it's a dangerous habit, Gavroche. Not all men are as understanding as Monsieur Enjolras."

Gavroche pouted and fixed his large, trusting eyes on him. Enjolras wished he could have told him that it wasn't true. That if he worked hard enough, then he too could grow up and study at the Sorbonne. That he wouldn't forever be a stable boy or doomed to a life of hard labor.

"Your sister isn't wrong," he said softly, his heart wrenching as the sparkle in Gavroche's eyes dulled. "But she's not entirely right either. It is," he lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, "the _responsibility_ of the young to tear down the tyranny of the past."

"And to do that I hafta educate myself!" Gavroche pumped his fists in the air with a childish candor that Enjolras envied. His own boyhood had been defined by hours fenced in by manners and decorum.

"Well, I s'pose that's something _Monsieur_ Enjolras and I can agree on," Eponine said, holding up her arms in surrender, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards at her brother's enthusiasm. "Though," she pinned him with a sharp look, "I question his judgement at stimulating such an excitable young boy so late at night."

"Aw…_'_Ponine! It's only half-past nine!"

"It's alright my _friend_. I'll come back tomorrow," Enjolras said, resting his hand on Gavroche's head. "And my apologies," he bowed his head toward Eponine, "I'll be more mindful from now on."

"It's alright," Eponine replied, her voice quiet. Her eyes studied him warily, as if he might suddenly sprout wings and fly off into the night. "I'm exceedingly grateful you've shown such kindness to my brother."

"He's quick and sharp," Enjolras said. There was something about the way she was looking at him that made him feel bold. "Not unlike his sister. I suppose it is a family trait."

"Y-you flatter us, monsieur."

"Flattery is not in my nature," he said. "But as you said, it is late and I will save my praises for another time. Goodnight to you both."

A flustered Eponine, he decided, was a dangerous thing. Her pale cheeks were dappled with pink, the pleasure that she normally kept so carefully hidden bubbled to the surface, brightening her dark eyes. And the knowledge that he could do that to her was a perilous thought.

* * *

AN: Yes. More developments and barricade boys in the next chapter as we launch straight into WWI.


End file.
